The Hot Summer
AFTER this Audrey and Stephen had many a talk with old Joe, in the
evening, about the Kingdom of Light. He kept his promise, and said
the little prayer; and Granny Robin said that she felt sure that it
was being answered—he was so humble, so sorry for his sinful life, so
anxious to walk as the Children of Light ought to walk.
It was touching to see his love for the children. He had been so long
without any one to care for him, that it was a new life to him to be
amongst kind, friendly faces, and all the love of his poor old heart
went out to them. As the evenings grew long and light, he followed them
about the churchyard, helping them to water the graves, and to cut down
the long grass at the foot of the stones.
But if old Maria happened, by any chance, to come into the churchyard
to show the old building to a stranger, he always hid behind a bush
until she was out of sight. He seemed to fear that, by some means, she
would know how often he had spent the night in the pulpit, and would
speak to him about it.
Stephen and Audrey were very pleased to find that old Joe had watched
the swallows with as much interest as they had done. He told them that
he had liked to have their company in the deserted church, and that
when he woke early in the morning he had loved to hear them twittering
overhead, and to watch them flying in and out of the broken pane in
the east window. There were young birds in the nest now, and Audrey
and Stephen spent a great part of every day in looking in through the
window, and in watching the parent birds feeding them.
And Granny Robin, when she heard of it, said that it reminded her of a
verse in the Book of Psalms:
"'The swallow hath found a nest for herself, where she may lay her
young, even Thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God.'"
And she taught Audrey and Stephen a little hymn, which she told them to
say to themselves as they peeped in at the swallows—
"'Happy birds that sing and fly
Round Thine altars, O most High;
Happier souls that find a rest
In a Heavenly Father's breast.'"
That was a hot summer in the old city. The elderly people said it
reminded them of the summers when they were young, which they always
declared were far hotter than the summers of their old age. The city
lay on a great plain, and the scorching rays of the sun seemed to
strike down upon it, with nothing to break their power. The old walls
helped to shut out even the faintest breath of air which might be
stirring outside; and as day after day and night after night went by,
and no cool refreshing showers came, the atmosphere in the narrow
streets of the city became close and stifling, and it was difficult to
work by day or to sleep by night.
Every one felt the influence of the weather in one way or another. Aunt
Cordelia felt it, and it affected her temper, and made her more hard
than ever on Audrey's pinafores. Granny Robin felt it, and sometimes
was so weary that she laid down her knitting, and sat with folded hands
dozing in her chair by the window. Stephen's father felt it, and was
obliged to climb out of his window and take his stool and tools under
one of the churchyard trees.
Audrey felt it, and sat wearily in the close atmosphere of Miss
Tapper's academy, and longed for school to be over, that she might get
back to Stephen. But the little boy felt it most of all. The flowers on
the two graves were drooping with the heat, in spite of all the careful
watering they received. And Stephen, the frailest flower of all, was
fading also, in spite of the tender care and love of his father.
No one thought much of it at first. It was the hot weather, they said,
which made him so quiet, and which led him to lie for hours together
on a rug which his father spread for him under the lilac bush, unable
to play, too weary even to look at pictures, too weak and tired to do
anything but watch the swallows flying backwards and forwards, and
round and round, as they looked for food for the little birds in the
nest. It was the hot weather, they felt sure, which had taken away his
appetite, and which had made him look even more thin, and pale, and
fragile than he did before.
[Illustration: "GRANNY ROBIN, I'VE COME TO TELL YOU A SECRET."]
They were all very good to him. Aunt Cordelia would come to her window
with a little cake fresh baked from her oven, to tempt him to eat.
Audrey would spend all her spare time in reading to him and trying to
amuse him. Granny Robin would let him climb inside her window, and lie
on her knee for hours together; whilst his father would do anything and
everything that he thought would cheer and brighten the child whom he
loved so dearly.
But although they were all so kind to him, although they all felt that
he suffered far more from the intense heat than they did, still none of
them were very anxious about him. They had been so long accustomed to
his being weak and fragile, that it did not strike them as strange that
he should be so completely exhausted by the weather; and they hoped and
believed that when cooler days came his strength would return, and that
he would be what he had been, and would do what he had been able to do
before the hot weather set in.
It was old Joe who saw most clearly, in spite of the dimness of his
sight for other things, that little Stephen was fading away. The
evenings were long and light now, and the old man and the children
spent more time together than before. The two graves were covered with
flowers, and old Joe had taken Stephen's place in helping Audrey to
water them and to take care of them. Stephen was too weak even to lift
his own little can. But Joe would carry him in his arms to look at
them, and to smell the roses which were growing on a little rose-bush,
which he had given him to plant on the grave of the two grandchildren.
Yet tears would often come into the old man's eyes as he looked at
the child. He had had no one to love him or to care for him till the
children had found him, and now one of them was going to leave him.
"Joe," said Stephen to him one day, "you'll take care of the grave for
me if I go away."
"Yes, Stephie, yes, to be sure I will," said the old man, as he wiped
away the tears which would come in his eyes.
But he never asked him where he was going, or when. He knew, and
Stephen knew, that the Child of Light was on his way to the Home of
Light, where darkness cannot come. He could not help speaking of it
that night, when Mr. Robin brought him his supper, that he might eat it
under the lilac tree.
"The little lad's going fast," he said, with a sob.
"What little lad? Not Stephie!" said Mr. Robin.
"He is, though," said the old man; "and what's more, he knows it
hisself."
It was only old Joe's fancy, Mr. Robin said, when he mentioned it to
his wife, but still he did think Stephen's father should let a doctor
see him.
Stephen's father was spoken to, and at once went off for the best
doctor in the old city. But the doctor told them just what the old man
had told them before—that Stephen was going fast. He might pick up a
bit if cooler weather came, but he would never outlive the summer, he
said.
Stephen had heard the doctor's words, and leaving his father and Mr.
Robin together, he crept away to Granny Robin's window.
"May I come in and sit on your knee, Granny Robin?" he said.
"Yes, my little darling," said the old woman, as she felt for the
window, that she might help him in.
"Now we're cosy," said Stephen, as the old woman laid aside her
knitting and took him in her arms.
"Granny Robin, I've come to tell you a secret."
"What is it, Stephie?"
"I'm going to die young, Granny Robin."
"Oh, I hope not, my dear child!" she said, as she stroked his little
thin face.
"Yes, the doctor said so," said Stephen gravely. "And you said it was a
good thing for the two grandchildren, Granny Robin."
"Yes, it will be a good thing for you, Stephie," she said; "but oh,
what shall we do without you? Whatever shall we all do without you?"
And Granny Robin broke down at this, and sobbed as if her heart would
break.
"Never mind," said little Stephen—"don't cry! I'm a Child of Light, you
know; and it will never be dark in the King's Garden—will it, Granny
Robin? And won't it be nice when you, and father, and Audrey, and old
Joe come there too?"
Granny Robin dried her eyes; she would not grieve the little lad by her
tears. And there was Audrey to be comforted—poor little Audrey—who had
come in crying and full of sorrow.
"I'm so tired," said Stephen presently, with a long, deep sigh.
Audrey called his father, who lifted him out of Granny Robin's arms,
and carried him to his little bed.
"Father," he said, as he was undressing him, "carry me to the window,
please."
"Why, Stephie, it's getting dark," he said. "What did you want to see?"
"I always look out before I get into bed," said the child. "I always
have a peep at the grave of the two grandchildren. Yes—there it is;
isn't it pretty, father? I wonder if any angels are looking at it now,
and if they see you and me up here? Shall you plant any flowers on my
grave? You will, won't you? I do wish I could be buried here, under the
window."
"My little lad, my own darling little lad!" sobbed the father, as he
laid him on his pillow.
The next day Stephen seemed better than he had done for weeks before,
and they all felt cheered and comforted, in spite of the doctor's
words. He walked about a little, and sat under the lilac bush, and even
helped Audrey to water the graves.
"Maybe he'll get better after all," said Mr. Robin hopefully. "Doctors
do make mistakes sometimes."
But old Joe shook his head.
"The candle flickers up a bit afore it goes out," he said gravely.